


(leave me with) a foggy mind

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Confessions, Couch Sex, Dubious Consent, Embarrassment, Hands, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heavy Drinking, Love Bites, M/M, Memory Loss, Porn with Feelings, tagging dub con for not remembering the night before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28132533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: Draco's halfway through a sip of some ridiculously named and priced mixed drink when Pansy says, as casual as someone commenting on the weather, "I think that's Harry Potter in the corner."
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 317





	(leave me with) a foggy mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shealwaysreads (onereader)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/gifts).



> Adding a quick note for clarification: Harry takes Draco home while Draco is extremely drunk. They eventually have sex while Draco is still under the influence. Though it's not explicit in the fic, Draco wants to have sex with Harry before he gets drunk, and Harry does not force or coerce Draco into having sex once they get to Draco's apartment. I've tagged for dub con in case anyone's triggered by drunken (but consenting) sex.

The pub nights started as a distraction. Life after his trial was dull, listless. The Manor was closed. His parents moved to France, as far away from English Wizarding society as they could manage while appearing not to be fleeing the Ministry. And Draco, left behind with the tattered remnants of their family name and his meagre portion of the Black family inheritance to prop him up, found that, even with magic, the day-to-day of it all became interminably dull.

As the seasons changed, the overwhelming grey of London in early fall seeped into his life until every part of him was stained with it, a dingy, dirty dishwater colour that he couldn't scrub away, no matter how hard he tried. Until one evening when Draco wandered into a relatively clean establishment late on a Friday, fell into a booth, and stayed there, drinking until everything blurred together in long, trailing smears of light. Perhaps it was the neon signs on the walls, advertising Muggle brands he'd never heard of, or maybe it was the fairy lights in red and blue and green that were looped around the bar, tangled among the glasses like unexpected starlight in rain. Whatever the case, it was the first colour he'd seen since May, and he loved the escape and bright flash of it. 

Pansy—rightfully overbearing with him since she had taken Draco home more than once—finally broke and decided to come with him. She was one of the only people Draco had ever felt comfortable enough to get really drunk around, a lowering of guard he only managed with alcohol burning its way through his veins. Drinking with Pansy was different than drinking by himself. By himself, it was a small, sad thing, even with the sparkle. It was a tiny grieving for his past, his present, his future. 

With Pansy, though, it became raucous. Fun. Her head thrown back, her raven wing black hair glinting in the light, she made him feel as if there was still time to repent and to _live_. Glass after glass slid across their table, emptied at their lips, and then tumbled back to the bar for a refill. They staggered their way to the curb after the pub closed, called the Knight Bus (neither of them was sober enough to Apparate), and slept it off at Draco's apartment in Soho. He fed her Hangover Potions in the morning while she cooked eggs, and they curled up together on his couch, wrapped under a blanket while they listened to the wireless and their breathing.

It was one of the best Saturdays he'd had since his sixth year.

A few weeks later, Theo joined them. He said it was for the spectacle rather than the drinking, which Pansy and Draco took to mean that he didn't want to be alone anymore. After making him drink the most disgusting shot the bartender knew of, they welcomed him into their corner booth with open arms.

The pub became a refuge, a way for Draco to get out from under the Ministry's thumb; for Pansy to avoid her odious parents and their constant reminders of _marriage_ and _duty_ and _familial lines_ , for Theo to pretend like his father hadn't died while breaking into the Ministry of Magic.

It was therefore unsurprising—or at least it should have been—that Harry Potter managed to ruin it all.

* * *

He's halfway through a sip of some ridiculously named and priced mixed drink when Pansy says, as casual as someone commenting on the weather, "I think that's Harry Potter in the corner."

Draco, of course, nearly drowns in his drink. Coughing, he sets the glass on the table, then does his best to regain his dignity.

"What?" he manages to ask, though his voice is rough when he does.

"Potter," Pansy says. She plucks a cherry from her drink and bites into it, her white teeth slicing through the fruit with brutal efficiency. "He's in the corner."

"Why should I care?"

Theo laughs, though he cuts the sound off when Draco glares at him. "Are we honestly going to pretend that this isn't a thing?"

"That what isn't a thing?"

"Is he really going to be this obtuse about it?" Theo asks Pansy, like Draco isn't sitting there glaring at the pair of them. "I thought he'd matured past this."

Pansy drops the cherry's stem on the table. "Clearly not."

"I am _right here_."

"Darling, you've had a thing for Harry Potter since we were in fifth year—"

"Fourth year, don't forget the badges."

"Right, _fourth_ year. Thank you, Theo."

Draco crosses his arms. His neck twinges as he tries to look to the corner that Pansy pointed to earlier without being obvious about it. "There's no way that Potter is in our pub."

"They don't limit their clientele, dear. As far as I'm aware, anyone can walk in and order a drink." Pansy raises her glass. "Why do you think we're here?"

"You're here because I'm here," Draco says with a sniff.

"That's inconsequential. And that's absolutely Harry Potter in the corner. A Weasley just sat down next to him."

Draco gives up on subtlety and half-stands from his chair, peering over the sea of Muggles between him and the corner booth. He sees Weasley first—Ron, though Draco doesn't want to examine why he was afraid it might've been the youngest instead—then, almost unwillingly, like a comet falling into orbit, he looks at Potter.

Suddenly warm from more than liquor, Draco forces himself to sit. That brief glance of Potter is enough to have his heart racing, unsteady and erratic as his thoughts. "It seems you're right, then."

"I'm always right," Pansy says as she finishes her drink. "Anyway, I thought you didn't care about Potter."

"I don't." Draco knows it comes out too forcefully, too full of emotion. He tamps it down viciously, washes it away with a quick sip of burning liquor. "I don't."

Theo hums in agreement. "Of course. Shall I get you another?"

Draco drinks like it's his sole purpose in life. Pansy and Theo ply him with different mixed drinks until he can't taste anything other than sugar and burn. Throughout it all, he keeps looking to the corner, where Potter and Weasley's heads are bent close together. He hears them laughing over the noise of the crowd, an experience that makes him feel transported back to Hogwarts when he would stare across the Great Hall and catch wisps of their words through the chaotic din.

His stomach churns, full of heat and liquid courage, and he feels Pansy and Theo's hands grabbing after him as he stands, but he shakes them loose, spilling his drink a bit as he does so. Stumbling forward, the room tilts and spins, the floor unsteady and his mind quickly turning—

* * *

Someone is beating a very slow tempo against the side of his head. The inside of his mouth has been filled with coarse sand that was stored in a rancid bin, and he's got some of it in his eyes judging by the grit he feels under his eyelids as he forces them open. Groaning at the sliver of light peeking through his bed hangings, Draco buries his face back into his pillow and fumbles about for his wand. He always has it nearby when he goes to bed, and after a moment of blind grasping, he wraps his fingers around magic-warm wood.

" _Accio_ Hangover Potion," he mumbles into his pillow. He knows from experience that his words will be enough for the magic to latch onto, even with his muffled enunciation and his voice sounding wrecked from dehydration. A moment later, there's a crash and a cursing, vaguely familiar voice echoing down his hallway.

"Dammit, Draco," the man says. "I told you I'd get it for you, you ponce."

He's frozen like a rabbit before a fox. Chest tight and heart pounding, Draco cracks open one eye, then the other, and stares at the wand in his hand.

It's not his.

"Here," the man says as he pulls back the bed curtains. His fingers are long and supple, his dark skin pulled taut across delicate bones and flesh. Backlit by the sun, his silhouette glows with the rosy gold of dawn. His shoulders are broad and well-muscled, his bare torso trim and dotted with bruises that Draco can barely make out. If he had the wherewithal to reach out, his fingers would fit in their shadows.

The potion bottle landing next to his hand startles Draco into some semblance of movement. Hands absolutely not shaking, he unstoppers it and swallows the potion in one long pull. As he's taking it away from his lips, the man—Draco isn't ready to name him yet, though he knows exactly who it is—takes the bottle from Draco's fingers and throws it aside before climbing into bed next to him.

His hand is warm as it finds Draco's hip beneath the blankets and pulls him closer.

"Feel better?" Potter asks as he noses at the line of Draco's jaw. His teeth are a pinpoint of sharp, aching pain against Draco's skin, and he gasps, the potion sweeping through his body as desire roars after. "I can get you another if you need it."

"No." Draco is suddenly painfully sober and unable to figure out what to do with his hands. Potter does not seem to be having the same problem. "I have your wand," he says with panic tinging his voice. He wants to say many other things, but his brain isn't working because Harry Potter is trailing his lips across Draco's pulse point like the ghost of a touch, a barely there breath that has Draco's prick as hard as granite under the sheets and blankets.

Potter's hand wraps around Draco's, their fingers tangling around the handle of Potter's wand. "I can see that." He wedges his fingers beneath Draco's, frees the wand, then tosses it aside without any care before he threads his fingers through Draco's. Pinned to the bed by that gentle touch and Potter's continued slow, determined mouth mapping all of the major veins and arteries of Draco's neck, Draco can't stop his back from arching. "Would you like me to find yours?"

"That's a terrible pick-up line."

"That's what you said last night."

Draco shuts his eyes, cursing internally. "What else did I say last night?"

Potter's mouth stills on Draco's skin, and his hand tightens briefly before pulling away. Leaning on his side, one arm still stretched across Draco—he doesn't know when or how it got there—Potter frowns down at him.

He's not wearing his glasses, and his eyes are painfully green. They're beautiful and confused, his brow furrowed in puzzled disquiet. "You don't remember."

For most of his life, Draco has lied. He's adept at it, comfortable with it even. He knows how to weave words together so that he's not technically telling falsehoods while getting his listener to believe whatever it is Draco's telling them. It would be easier to lie now, to make Potter believe what Draco wants him to believe. To get that mouth and those hands back on Draco's skin, to lose himself to the ache and the heat, to relive a memory he doesn't remember, to have a fantasy he's wanted half of his life, real and warm in his bed.

But Draco doesn't want the smeared-colour memory of it, doesn't want the faded taste and feel. He wants it, sharp like a paper cut, still painful hours later.

"I don't."

Potter curses and rolls away. Suddenly cold, Draco pulls the blanket around his chest. As he shifts to sitting, he's struck by how vulnerable he feels naked in his own bed. Potter has his back turned to Draco, his shoulders hunched, and his head held in his hands. Draco can't stop staring at the twin dimples above Harry's arse or the dip of his spine. When Potter pulls his head up and turns back to face Draco, his knee rests on the mattress, thighs spread open around his… 

Draco looks away, face warm.

"Well," Potter says, as if that one word is a full sentence.

"Indeed."

Silence falls between them, heavy and uneasy, and Potter turns away again, his fingers running through his bed-rumpled hair and making it look artful and debauched, and Draco wants with an intensity that makes his back teeth ache.

"I'm going to go, then," Potter says as he stands. He doesn't turn around, just lets the bed hangings close behind him as he gathers his clothes. Draco makes out Potter's stilted movements around the bedroom through the thin crack between the curtains, and as Potter slides his long, lean legs into his denims, Draco curses.

"Wait," he says as he drags himself across the bed and pulls the curtains back. "Wait, please."

When Potter turns, his jeans are gaping open in the front, and Draco can see that he's not wearing pants. Cursing again, Draco drags his eyes up, as if there's any refuge to be found in Potter's toned abs or well-muscled chest. Even his clavicle, a part of the human body that Draco's never found that enticing, is a temptation. It's dotted with darkened spots in the shape of a mouth—Draco's mouth—and he's horrified at his poor behaviour and wretched that he can't remember any of it.

"Well?" Potter says, his arms spread wide. "I'm waiting, Dra—Malfoy."

"Let me get dressed." He pulls at the blanket until it comes free, then wraps it around his waist as he finally clambers out of bed. "I just… I need to be wearing something if we're going to have a conversation."

Potter sighs, then starts doing up his fly. "Right." Glancing around, he grabs a shirt and throws it on. Draco is enough of a gentleman to not mention that it's his.

It doesn't take him long to dress. While he takes care with his clothes when he's planning on going out, he doesn't bother with it too much at home. He's got a pair of grey joggers and a white T-shirt he likes to wear around the house, with a dark blue cardigan with deep pockets he likes to wear over top. It doesn't match, but it's bloody comfortable, and he needs a bit of comfort right now.

By the time Draco's finished, Potter's drifted into the front room. He's got a cup of tea in front of him, and Draco does his best to not think of the man looking through Draco's kitchen cabinets. It feels too intimate, even though the lingering ache in Draco's body tells him they've already been that.

Escaping to the kitchen to pour himself a cup, he prays that he didn't make a complete arse of himself the night before.

He lingers in the doorway between the kitchen and the front room. Potter's back is to him, and Draco lets himself stare at the man. He doesn't understand how they got here. He barely remembers what happened last night or what would have motivated him to go over to the man. It's been years since they've seen each other, and Draco had convinced himself that he had moved past this. But unable to do anything other than trail his eyes over the nape of Potter's neck, to let it ghost across the neckline of his shirt, to follow the delicate curve of his ear, Draco knows it's a lie.

When he finally settles next to Potter, the other man's cup is empty but still cradled between his hands.

"What do you remember?" Potter finally asks, his eyes trained on the slightly stained porcelain.

"I remember," Draco starts, but then stills. Taking a deep breath, he tries again. "I remember seeing you at my pub. With Weasley."

"Fuck. Ron." Potter presses his fingers to his eyes, sneaking them beneath the frames of his glasses. "He's going to bloody kill me for this."

"Why?" Draco asks before he can think better of it.

Potter laughs, though it sounds like a sigh. "Because he told me I'd regret it."

"And do you?"

Something in Draco's voice draws Potter's eyes from his cup to Draco's face. His expression is unreadable, a still, serious thing that has Draco unable to breathe for the answer it hides.

"I don't know yet," Potter finally says before looking away.

"I remember… I saw you, and I thought… I thought 'why is he here?' and… And I thought about how much I've… I thought about our past."

"You came over," Potter says. His expression softens, a hint of a smile twisting his lips. "And you told Ron to get fucked."

"Oh, Merlin." Draco sets his teacup down so he can put his face in his hands. "Of fucking course I did."

"I thought it was funny," Potter says kindly. "You were obviously three sheets to the wind. Your friends tried to drag you back to your table, but you wouldn't let them. Just kept telling Ron to shove over. When he wouldn't, you nearly sat in his lap."

Draco's very happy that his mother convinced him to make a living will because he's going to expire of shame in his flat in the next two to three minutes, perhaps faster if the rate of his heart is anything to go by. "That's perfect. Bloody lovely. Fuck. How in the hell did you end up here?"

Potter laughs. "Well, after Ron left, you got a bit… Preachy isn't the right word for it, but you clearly had a lot to say to me, and I wasn't going to stop you." He falls silent, and when he speaks again, his voice is shaky. "You said a lot of things, actually. It was… unexpected."

"So I admitted to it, then," Draco says on a groan. "To my… _feelings_."

"Uh…" Potter coughs. "Actually, feelings never came up."

Draco starts counting down. Even though they're mortifying, he wants to remember his final seconds on earth.

"Well then." Draco takes a sip of tea, desperate for something to keep his mouth occupied before it betrays him any further. "Would you care to elaborate, then?"

Potter smiles, and gods, does it make Draco's chest hurt. "Well, you started off by calling me an arsehole. Still not entirely sure why that was your opening gambit, but it got things going."

"Wait." Draco shuts his eyes, then presses his fingers into them. A snippet of conversation flits through his mind, and he groans. "I remember a bit of that. How long did I go on about your saviour complex?"

"Drink and a half, I think. You moved on, though."

"To your…" Draco desperately tries to remember. His head pounds. "Muscles?"

It startles a laugh from Potter. "Yes. You did have a bit to say about those. That was one of the more surprising moments for me."

"Shit."

"It was… endearing at the time."

"Embarrassing now, though."

"No," Potter says, his voice soft and tinted with hope. "Still endearing."

Draco opens his eyes to find Potter looking at him, expression unreadable but terrifyingly hinting at hopeful. "I don't… I wish I remembered more."

"You told me that you thought I was stupid but brave. Reckless, but for a good cause." Potter's cheeks stain with red. "Unaware, but beautiful because of it."

"I called you beautiful."

"That and a few other synonyms for it, yes."

"Is that…" Draco swallows. "Is that why you're here, now?"

Potter doesn't answer, just shakes his head.

Exhaling, Draco asks the question he's wanted to ask since he heard Potter's voice in his hallway. "Why, then?"

Potter's delicate porcelain teacup quietly clinks against the coffee table when he sets it down. Shifting forward, he takes Draco's cup from his hands and sets it next to his cup on the table. One empty, one full, both tinted with brown. When Potter takes Draco's hands in his own, it's warmer than the tea had been, a scalding touch that Draco doesn't want to pull away from even as it hurts.

"Because in the years since I last saw you," Potter says, his fingers running over the raised ridge of Draco's knuckles, "I haven't been able to put you out of my mind. I've thought of you over and over again. I know you don't know this, but I was there when Dumbledore… When that happened. And I saw you lower your wand, just a bit before everything went to shit. I didn't have time to think about then, but after… I wondered what it meant. I wondered what it meant when you lied about knowing who I was at your house when your aunt asked. And I wondered what it meant when you let me take your wand."

"I didn't." Draco's hands are shaking, though Potter's gentle grip eases it somewhat. "It slipped."

Potter looks up from under his lashes, squeezes his hands. "It didn't. And I wanted to know why you let me have it when it meant that you'd be punished."

"You… It doesn't matter that I did. You saved my life in the Room of Hidden Things. We're even."

"But I wanted to know _why_." Potter turns Draco's hand so that his palm faces up. Slowly, he traces the lines bisecting it, from thumb to wrist and back again. "I needed to know why."

Draco breathes in, though it feels like the air shakes its way into his lungs. "Because you wanted."

Potter's eyes flash, green and hot. "Because I wanted." From thumb to wrist and back again. "And because you wanted, too."

"So you came home with me."

Potter looks away, but there's a smile on his lips. "It wasn't my intention. You were too drunk to Apparate, and Parkinson and Nott left before you were ready to."

"Some friends."

"I don't know, I think they'd be pretty happy for you right now." Potter presses his thumb to the centre of Draco's palm, then tentatively laces their fingers together. "I hope… I didn't want to take advantage."

"No, no." Draco thinks their fingers together look like light through window slats, bands of dark and light, somehow better by being together than apart. "I only… I wish I could remember it all."

Potter laughs. "It was a bit sloppy if I'm to be honest. I usually put on a better showing than I did last night, but you were…"

"I was…"

Bright green a thin halo around wide, dark pupils. "Insatiable. Untameable. Like molten silver in my hands, pliable and burning."

"Fuck." Draco's hard again, and he knows his joggers aren't hiding it at all. "Who knew you were a poet?"

"You bring it out in me." Tentatively, Potter draws their joined hands towards him. Draco can't help but follow until Potter's lips ghost over their fingers. He kisses Draco's knuckles gently, but there's a hint of teeth behind his lips. "I can go if you want."

Shivering, Draco moves close enough that their knees touch. He pulls one hand free, then places it on Harry's knee. "Or you could stay and tell me what else you remember."

The muscle under his hand twitches and Draco can't stop himself from digging his fingers into it. Harry's leg is firm and ungiving, and as Draco's grip gentles, Harry twists Draco's hand so he can press a kiss to the palm.

"I remember," he says, and Draco feels the words against his skin, "that your mouth tasted like liquor, but not from all of the drinks you had. And I remember never wanting to stop kissing you once I started."

Harry brushes the tips of his fingers against Draco's neck. It's barely a touch, just a hint of skin-on-skin, but it's enough to draw Draco forward, to make his mouth open the slightest bit, for him to fall into the kiss like he was waiting for it to rush up and meet him. 

Harry presses Draco's hand to Harry's neck and holds it there. They're mirrored images of each other, their hands cradling and pulling forward as they kiss, slow and scorching. It burns through Draco, leaves him shaking and desperate. He's the first to break the softness, tangling his fingers in Harry's tightly curled hair and dragging him forward. Out of the two of them, Harry's the one with the clear memories, and Draco feels that imbalance like a hunger, a desperate desire to know what Harry's already learned.

Slowly, things come back to him. As he draws his shirt off Harry's body, he remembers the feel of Harry's skin, the heat of it against Draco's mouth. He relearns the path his lips took the night before, connecting the dots along the line of Harry's collarbone before losing his way and diverting to the thick cords of his neck. Draco pushes Harry down into the cushions of his couch, biting his way back to Harry's mouth, lost in the half-remembered, relearned feel of Harry's body beneath his own.

Harry's hands are like brands on Draco's hips, and when he pulls them down to meet his own, they're both hard against the other. Rutting together like teenagers—and in a way, Draco feels like he's one again; he's desperate for Harry, his emotions a riotous mix of want and desperation, of disbelief, of anger—they only pause to struggle from their clothes. When Harry grabs Draco's arse with his wide, strong hands, bare skin on bare skin, Draco keens with the sharp pleasure that shatters through him.

"I remember," Harry pants as he slots his cock in the crease between Draco's arse cheeks, "the feel of you wrapped around me, and the sounds you made when you came."

"Fuck, Harry." Draco wraps his hand against Harry's prick, presses it closer to his hole. There's a twinge of soreness, a lingering sense of what they'd done the night before, but it means that Draco's able to notch the head of Harry's cock inside of himself that much easier. Cursing, he manages a gasped _Lubrico_ , and then the burn eases, replaced by fullness and Harry's hands scrabbling for purchase on Draco's sweat-slicked body.

"I remember this," he says as he rides Harry's cock, his thighs aching with the strain. "Gods, I remember this."

Head thrown back, he falls into it. Last night blurs together with the moment, and all of it is filled with want and pleasure and _finally_. Smears of green eyes and red mouths and dark skin against light. With a forceful thrust, Harry hits Draco's prostate, and he opens his eyes, staring at the white ceiling as colour ripples through him.

"Do you remember me telling you you're fucking gorgeous?" Harry growls. Draco looks down at him, at the way sweat coats his brow and darkens his already dark hair. Unthinking, Draco wipes it from Harry's brow, then brings his fingers to his mouth to taste the salt of Harry's skin. "Do you remember me telling you I've dreamt of this, of you?"

Draco folds over, stealing the breath from Harry's mouth. "I will," he whispers against Harry's mouth, grinding down on his cock, wanting, wanton. "I will."

"I'm not… Draco, I can't."

Fire races through him. "Say it again."

"Draco," Harry pants. "Draco."

Another burst of light, another shifting of his world as pleasure shakes its way through him. Draco groans, and he starts coming as Harry keeps saying Draco's name through heated kisses and tightened hands. The clench of his body must push Harry over the edge because Draco's name is choked off on a shout, the final syllable a broken cry that still echoes through the flat and the hallways of Draco's heart.

He falls forward, forehead pressed to the dip where Harry's shoulder meets his neck. Unable to stop himself, Draco presses his lips to the sweat-beaded skin. He leaves his mouth open as he catches his breath, tasting salt with every inhale.

Harry's fingers sneak into Draco's hair, threading their way through the damp strands with a tenderness that's almost as overwhelming as the orgasm. Eyes still shut, Draco thinks he'd like to stay in this moment forever, too afraid of what comes after.

"Do you remember," Harry says against Draco's temple, "me asking if you wanted to get dinner sometime?"

"No." Draco turns his head, catches green and gets lost in it. "But how do you feel about breakfast?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna ramble a bit, so get ready.
> 
> BELLA. You are one of the loveliest people I've ever had the pleasure to meet. You're unflinchingly kind and generous. I'm constantly amazed by your grace and the joy you find in life, even when times are difficult. You are supportive and encouraging, and it doesn't matter who needs it, you're always there to provide it.
> 
> As if being a good person weren't enough, you are also INCREDIBLY talented. I am always blown away by your words, and it stuns me that I get to call you my friend. I sincerely hope you like this little bit of nothing, and that you have a birthday that is as wonderful as you are.
> 
> * * *
> 
> THANK YOU to my lovely friends and betas, [veelawings]() and [slytherco]() for looking over this at the last second. Next time I write a birthday fic, I will give you more time to read it. 😂😘


End file.
